You'll Never Believe This
by Vane Alasse
Summary: To look at the lead percussionist one wouldn't automatically scream, "Oh my goodness, an elf!" No, his disposition rather than his appearance caused every part of my immagination to agree on his elven qualities. But surely I must be mistaken, right?
1. An Elven Drummer?

Chapter One  
  
An Elven Drummer?  
  
"Percussion!"  
  
Tap, tap, tap.  
  
"Percussion!"  
  
I hear my band conductor banging his baton on the music stand. Looking over the sea of flutes I'm drowned in I see the members of the percussion section huddled together in a small circle. It is amusing how oblivious they are to Mr. Richard's call to attention.  
  
"Drums!"  
  
Suddenly they look up. The section leader turns abruptly and straightens his posture. He holds his chin up and his keen, intelligent eyes meet with the conductor's. He listens to the instructions, nods his head, and the scurries quickly away to carry them out.  
  
I smile. So elf-like.  
  
Needless to say I'm a Lord of the Rings fanatic. Though I refer to myself as obsessed, I dislike it when others use the same terminology to describe my intense admiration of these books.  
  
So, of course, my natural inclination is to categorize everyone who is of a sprightly nature as elven. Take one of my friends, for example: she has Galadriel hair, a graceful figure, and a naturally pretty face. Definitely elven.  
  
But sometimes I wander so far in the classification of my peers that outward beauties begin to take a second place in priority. So it is with the leader of the percussion section.  
  
At first I had a hard time convincing my sister of his "elven" qualities, because to look at him one wouldn't automatically scream, "Oh my goodness! An elf!" Even I must admit he isn't what many people would call hot. No, his disposition rather than his appearance cause every part of my tameless imagination to agree on his "elfdom."  
  
Sure, he has long, blond hair and a perfectly elven form. But isn't long hair the style now? See, my sister told me, nothing unusual about that. But look closer, I prodded. Watch his actions, his emotions. I have never seen anyone so full of energy. Each time he is present at rehearsal I am entertained by his hyperactiveness. He oversees everything in his section with the most acute attention to detail. Wether he's tuning the tympani, handing out music, or directing the girl on the bells he is always intently involved. I see him run lightly from one drum to another during and between songs, always full of vitality and gentle enthusiasm. Smiles spread through the group of percussionists when he gives assistance or shares a friendly conversation.  
  
I'm just a typical flutist: a bit of an air head and far too talkative. I never knew running the percussion section was such a big job. Yet sometimes I find myself wishing I could be a drummer and join their cheerful comradeship. 


	2. Sleeping Bag Escapade

**Chapter Two**  
  
**Sleeping Bag Escapade  
**  
So here it is: Friday. I stand timidly in line at the band retreat, waiting to sign in. My backpack hangs heavily on my right shoulder and my huge, grey sleeping bag rests at my feet.  
  
My sister, Anna, smashes me accidently with my pillow which she carries under her arm. I groan.  
  
"Sorry," she says. "Look, Joy. There's Scott and Elisa. And over there next to the fireplace Kaitlyn's sitting on her bag. Hi!"  
  
She stops to wave at her friend, symultaneously knocking me repeatedly with the pillow. Outwardly I'm upset, yet inside I can't help laughing. It always amazes me how my sister can be so comfortable in situations that give me the creeps.  
  
Then I hear her gasp.  
  
"What?" I ask, sounding annoyed.  
  
Her voice is barely a whisper, "It's the Legolas guy."  
  
Now I really laugh. "So?"  
  
She shrugs her shoulders. "Oh, nothing."  
  
I glance around the room until I see him. Yep, there he is: Mr. Percussion himself. Why do we call him Legolas? Simple enough: I don't know his name.  
  
It wasn't that I hadn't had my chance to learn it. No, I'd been introduced before, last fall at the beginning of rehearsals. I distinctly remember Scott turning to me and saying, "Joy, meet --." There my brain hits a blank and substitutes Legolas. Memory has played a fun little game with my mind and now, lacking the courage to ask him myself, I refer to him as Legolas. I hope Tolkien won't be offended.  
  
"Mae govannen!" I hear my sister say in a sing-song voice. "Back to reality, Joy! It's your turn."  
  
I blush nervously and lug my stuff up to the table. After receiving my nametag, room number, and rehearsal schedule my sister leads the way out of the building. Once under the open skys she breaks into song.  
  
"When the COLD of WINter COMES!  
  
Starless NIGHT will COVer DAY!  
  
With the VEILing OF the SUN!  
  
We will WALK in bitter RAIN!"  
  
"You know, Anna, we really ought to invest in singing lessons," I mutter.  
  
Whap! The pillow crashes down onto my head. I trip, dropping the sleeping bag. It bounces merrily down the hill, followed by myself and Anna running frantically behind it. It lands nonchalantly against an overgrown shrub, then rolls into a bed of barkdust.  
  
"Nóla lín lhost!" I exclaim, picking the splinters of wood off my bag.  
  
"Well, I wasn't the brilliant one who dropped the sleeping bag!" she returns.  
  
I grumble under my breath as we walk up the path and into the retreat center's dormitory. After debating which bunk to take, I fling my luggage onto a bare matress and sit down.  
  
"Have fun at camp, Alasse!" Anna says, throwing the pillow to me.  
  
Watching her skip out of the room I sigh and even feel a slight tang of dissappointment that I'm now on my own.  
  
"Namarié, mellon-lín," I whisper.

**Elvish translations:**

_Mae govannen_ - Well met (Used in this story to say something like "Yo, Dude!")

_Nóla lín lhost!_ - Your head is empty (an insult)

_Alasse_ - Joy

_Namarié, mellon-lín_ - Farewell, my friend

_Author note: Okay, everyone. Thanks for reviewing! My sister posted this to surprise me, because she likes it. I wasn't really sure it was ready to go online, yet here it is...so oh well. :) Vane Alasse_


	3. Are You Busy?

**Chapter Three  
Are You Busy?  
**  
I'm so bored.  
  
I look down at my watch for the five-hundred-millionth time. Is the battery even working? I hold it up to my ear.  
  
Tick. Tick. Tick.  
  
Still working.  
  
It's only eight o'clock in the evening. I'm going to be here until lunch tomorrow, and I have no one to talk to and nothing to do. The epitome of boredom.  
  
In the room next to me several of some of the musicians are watching a film from last year's concert. They are laughing, talking, and poking fun at the images of themselves.  
  
"Oh!" I hear Scott shout. "This is a good one -- until the French horns come in a mess it up."  
  
I smile. Scott is one of those incredibly talented people who plays over ten instruments, including French horn, nearly perfectly.  
  
Lacking any other productive activity, I decide to walk outside. The night is cool and crisp. From the top of the hill I see the last glimmer of sunshine hanging over the horizon. A ribbon of rosy light intertwines with the curtain of night. Tiny stars twinkle in the black, velvet expanse above me.  
  
In a nearby field I hear screams of laughter and delight as musicians take a break from practicing and play dark tag. But near me all is quiet and still. It is a perfectly beautiful evening.  
  
Not very far away I see a person walking alone. His arms are crossed and he walks slowly, evidently enjoying the serenity of nature as much as I am. How smoothly he steps, with no noise at all. His grey form is difficult to distinguish in the falling night, yet as he turns and meanders to the building I see his face. It's the Legolas guy.  
  
Starting to shiver I head back inside. Maybe something fun and interesting will be happening. On second thought, it's not very likely.  
  
I open the door and plop into an empty chair. The movie is still playing. Below me I hear the ripple of notes rising from a piano. I tap my feet together, feeling awkward and uncomfortable.  
  
"Joy!" I hear.  
  
I look up. The band manager smiles at me over the pile of papers she's carrying.  
  
"Busy?" she asks.  
  
"Not really," I reply.  
  
"Great. Want to do me a favor?"  
  
"Sure, Karen."  
  
"Excellent. Here, take this music downstairs, first door on the right, and make a copy of each piece for me. Think you can do that?"  
  
She hands me the stack, nearly fifty sheets high. I look at the title.  
  
"Awesome! Who gets to play Pirates of the Caribbean?"  
  
"Nita's group," Karen says.  
  
"No fair!"  
  
Karen laughs and pats me on the shoulder. "Oh come on, Joy. Think what you get to look forward to."  
  
"Strauss and Souza?"  
  
"Exactly! Now remember, first door on the right. You can't miss it. And don't worry about taping, I'll capture some other volunteer for that."  
  
I turn and head towards the stairs. Great, a "tete a tete" with the photocopy machine for the whole evening. Sounds enchanting. 


	4. Heaven?

_Chapter Four_

**Heaven?**

* * *

I hop down the stairs, methodically counting each step to myself.  
  
Twelve, thud. Thirteen, thud. Fourteen, thud.  
  
The stack of loose pages in my arms bounces with each step.  
  
Seventeen, thud. Eighteen, thud. Nineteen -- CRASH!  
  
BANG goes the piano.  
  
All I see is blackness.  
  
Humiliation sends a rush of heat to my face, and a pounding headache ensues. Why did I have to fall here and now? Stupid me; I always knew ballerinas were clutces. Why can't I be the exception to the rule?  
  
_ "Ai! An i ëar ar elin! Presta? Man martes? Buich?"  
  
_ I feel strong hands grab me by the waist and lift me to an upright sitting position. I open my eyes.  
  
"Have I died and gone to heaven?" I ask.  
  
The handsome face before me smiles.  
  
"Well, if you call linoleum heaven."  
  
It's the Legolas guy.  
  
I chuckle nervously, extremely embarrassed.  
  
"You said something -- in Elvish!"  
  
He shrugs his shoulders. "Fad."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's a fad now."  
  
I nod my head slowly. "So you like Lord of the Rings?"  
  
"You could say that, yeah."  
  
"Wow. So how much Elvish do you know?"  
  
"Not too much," he answers. "Do you want some help picking up these papers?"  
  
I look around. Sheets of music lie everywhere.  
  
"That would be really great, thanks."  
  
"No problem."  
  
We get busy. As we pick up each piece my curiosity increases. The Legolas dude speaks Elvish? You've got to be kidding. After a while my inquisitiveness gets the better of me.  
  
"You know, it's kinda funny really, my sister and I think you look like Legolas."  
  
"That's interesting. I don't look anything like Orlando Bloom."  
  
Woah! He's not offended. He's even willing to talk about it. What an awesome guy!  
  
"Umm . . . I know. But it's just, well, you seem -- so elven."  
  
He laughs, a gentle, clear laugh.  
  
"What?" I ask. "What's so funny?"  
  
"Me? An elf?"  
  
"Oh, so you're not?"  
  
He is silent; his deep eyes seem troubled.  
  
"Legolas?"  
  
Instantly I realize my mistake. Why did I let it slip my tongue? Oh, stupid me . . .  
  
"What does that name mean to you?" he asks.  
  
I am at a loss for words.  
  
He continues. "What does that name mean to you? A cute guy with blond hair and eyes that change color? Is it synonymous with Orlando Bloom? Is Legolas a movie star? A hot elf in a movie with cool clothes and stupid lines? Do you dream about him at night and right stories about him during the day? Do you chit chat with your girlfriends about him nonstop? Is he your favorite source of conversation and amusement? When you see the name Legolas in print does it make your face flush and when you see Orlando's picture do you faint? Who is Legolas to you? What does his name really mean?"  
  
I truly don't know how to answer these questions. I half wonder to myself if this guy is insane.  
  
"I don't know. Maybe. Why do you care?"  
  
He sighs. "I don't."  
  
"Liar."  
  
His eyes flash in response. "You're right."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're right. I do care."  
  
I bite my lip, not knowing what else to do.  
  
"I do care, more than I should. What does that name mean to you?"  
I begin to feel sorry for this guy. Poor thing, is he jealous of Orlando or something?  
  
"I guess, I guess I don't know," I answer.  
  
He perks up a little, so I continue.  
  
"I think Legolas is a cool character in an awesome story who has sadly been captured by the unofficial international Hot Elf Fan club. He really is great in the books, and in the movie. It's just he's been taken by the wrong audience, and now no one really remembers who he is."  
  
"Do you truly believe that?" he asks.  
  
I nod my head.  
  
"_I lassé an cuil lín ún firitha_," he says.  
  
"Hmm?" I ask.  
  
"May the leaves of your life never die."  
  
"Elvish again?"  
  
He smiles. "Yeah, it is, after all, my native tongue."  
  
"Yeah right." He must have some crazy parents.  
  
"No, seriously. And I must say, you have very good instincts."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Not many people would have guessed it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I am Legolas."

* * *

Translation of _Ai! An i ëar ar elin! Presta? Man martes? Buich?_  
Eek! By the stars and sea! Is there trouble? What happened? Do you need help? 


End file.
